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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24625117">hug me 'til you drug me, honey, love me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewoodfigs/pseuds/firewoodfigs'>firewoodfigs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Royai Week 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood &amp; Manga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Autocracy, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishval Civil War, Mentions of religion, Royai Week, political fic?? sorta, references to Greek mythology</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 11:01:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,620</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24625117</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/firewoodfigs/pseuds/firewoodfigs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t, can’t remember each other - not when they’ve been stripped of their identities and labelled with letters and numbers, before being slotted deftly into an inescapable hierarchy, an inevitable social destiny. The only brief memory they have of each other lies within a letter inscribed onto her back. </p><p>(for royai week, day 1 - letters &amp; day 2 - mother mother, little pistols)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Royai Week 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783309</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>hug me 'til you drug me, honey, love me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>(i) inspired by many pieces of art - Huxley’s Brave New World (some of the italicised lines, as well as the title, are taken from his book), Wilfred Owen’s Anthem for Doomed Youth, snippets from Mother Mother’s Little Pistol, as well as soterianyx’s analysis of Riza’s tattoo and my friend’s explanation that fire on sand brings glass.<br/>(ii) tw: war, death, violence, genocide<br/>(iii) count the alphabets if you’re confused by who’s who!<br/>(iv) i wanted to experiment with a different writing style here; one that's more 'detached' and all... (a little out of my comfort zone tbh haha) - i'd love to hear any feedback on this :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>~x~ </p><p><em> Memory. Identity. Emotions. </em> </p><p>The Amestrian military has no need for silly things like these. Sentimentalities are but frivolities in a war zone. The military needs people who can kill without batting an eyelid - cavalier about murder, like the Autocrat’s rapier. Soldiers who will mindlessly obey orders; subjugate themselves to the will of the State without resistance.</p><p>
  <em> The individual is not its own being. It is a part of the State.  </em>
</p><p>Bearing this axiom in mind, A-18/13 dutifully accepts his fate as a State Alchemist. He snaps on his ignition gloves, staring blankly at the red sigil - <em> a lost, distant memory, perhaps? </em> Regardless, he does not probe, does not flinch as the heat engulfs his hands and reminds him of a bittersweet embrace that he’s never tasted. </p><p>After all, the perfect soldier wastes no time on ruminations like these.</p><p>A-18/13 is armed for battle and ready to abide by the State’s decree. What might have once been remorseful reluctance and moral scruples are now replaced by an undying loyalty, an unwavering fealty to the State. </p><p>The white coat shrouds him like a cloud, but there’s an inexplicable coldness to it. It’s odd. He’s supposed to be the Flame Alchemist, but using his powers for simple comforts like warmth instead of killing feels rather inane. And so he refrains from doing so. </p><p>Instead, he stands ruler-straight with the rest of the State Alchemists, ignoring the subtle hunger and discomfiture bubbling in his throat.  </p><p>“For the greater good<em>,</em>” the soldiers chant, mouths moving like parrots. “For the greater good of the State.”</p><p>On the other side of the room, E-18/8 likewise accepts her orders. She’s young - hardly an adult by legal standards - fresh out of the academy, but it’s of little import to the State. All that matters is her talent in handling a gun, a rifle; her readiness to be shipped out to the desert. Notwithstanding her relatively petite stature, there’s a stubborn strength in her shoulders that beguiles her age and inexperience in war. </p><p>“Stay in the shadows, fire at any threat,” is the command given to her. “Sacrifice yourself for those who are above you.” </p><p>At their behest, she salutes before stepping forward to accept her instrument of death. The rifle feels cool against her palm, but she doesn’t flinch. What might have once been a burning desire to protect someone has been quashed and replaced with hands that are cold as ice. Indifferent to bloodshed. </p><p>“For the greater good,” the soldiers recite again. “For the greater good of the State.” </p><p>Their hollow voices reverberate across the room like the sounds of a lonely, dispassionate choir. </p><p>“Silence, silence.” Chanting dies off into light, regular breathing. The air is sibilant with the categorical imperative as they await further orders. </p><p>The Autocrat begins his descent down the stairs, into the basement shrouded by a thickening, eerie atmosphere of gray. He enters into the room: regal, powerful and of stalwart built. </p><p>The ultimate Alpha. </p><p>Everyone bows deferentially. “Fuhrer King Bradley,” his puppets’ voices resonate in perfect harmony across the room. </p><p>He looks upon them from the platform on which he stands with an unreadable expression. Then, with a deceptively pleasant smile, he asks, “You know what Ishvala is, I suppose?” </p><p>A rhetorical question. The soldiers chime in with the answer he anticipates, without any need for prompting. “A dead religion,” they reply, in perfect harmony. </p><p>Deadened, darkened eyes turn to look at him.</p><p>“Wonderful. Such excellent soldiers you all are. Well, remember this now, even if you forget everything else.” There’s a gleam in his eyes that’s disgustingly delightful as his lips curl upward, undertones of menace lingering within. The Autocrat draws his sword out. The tip of his blade meets the ground, and he rests his palms on the hilt as he barks out his next command. “All orders are to be obeyed immediately, for the greater good of the State.”  </p><p>“For the greater good of the State,” his lackeys reply, an incantation thoroughly internalised by now. </p><p>He smiles once more, before letting his gaze linger for a little while longer on A-18/13 and E-18/8. The two soldiers who, reportedly, were the most difficult amongst the lot to deal with during the extraction process. </p><p><em> Amelos potamos </em>, it was called - a process by which soldiers were medically induced into a coma before utilising alchemy to tap into their subconscious, to extract and seal their memories away. </p><p>The goal was for them to wake up without any recollection of who they were, save for their fighting capabilities, as the gold-toothed doctor so kindly explained to the Autocrat. Emotional capabilities eroded so that troublesome fetters like - <em> god forbid, </em>feelings! - could get out of the picture. Consciences atrophied, minds brainwashed. All obstacles to the full realisation of their indestructible power in the war erased. </p><p>Reduced to subconsciousness,<em> amelos potamos </em>had been a surprisingly easy process to perform on most soldiers. For the general majority there was no struggle against the process, and they awoke into nothingness: nothing but shells of their former selves. For some, their minds had repelled against the procedure initially, as if desperately grappling on to fragments of their former selves, but eventually they’d succumbed as well. </p><p>A-18/13 and E-18/8 had, however, proved to be most cumbersome with their startling mental resistance. Even in their subconscious their minds had clawed frantically at the memories they shared with each other, stubbornly refusing to let go of the basis behind their shared bond. The doctors struggled to find a way around this, and even when they arrived at a solution it was a long, painstaking process to go through the elaborate removal of their memories, piece by piece - for there were <em> so many </em>- and - </p><p>-- and destroy every single trace. </p><p>And finally, at the end of it, they recalled nothing, felt nothing as they arose from their comatose states to a chilly hospital room. To a perfect world, without hindrances to ruthlessness. The perfect soldiers were engineered thus. </p><p>
  <em> What man has engineered, nature is powerless to put asunder.  </em>
</p><p>The Autocrat smiles beatifically at last, eyes crinkling with genuine pleasure. He inspects the soldiers once more with all the coldness of someone debating a pawn’s move on a chessboard.  “It’s time.” </p><p>At his beckon, they march out into battle like an army of marionettes.</p><p>~x~ </p><p> </p><p>Out in the battlefield, the Amestrian soldiers are like industrialised man-machines, way ahead of their time. An inward dehumanisation, an outward mechanisation. The Alchemists, in particular, possess a power so lethal that they could wipe out an entire army of men with the slightest snap of their fingers, the briefest clap of hands.</p><p>This they do unflinchingly, without hesitation.</p><p>True to the gold-toothed doctor’s predictions, there were no obstructions to the realisation of their full potential. Gone were nuisances like compunction, pity - foreign concepts that didn’t belong in the desert. The soldiers simply stare at their corpses laid out before them with glazed eyes, before continuing to traverse the desert like the very harbingers of doom themselves.</p><p>Death and destruction follow them, wherever they go. There is no remorse to be felt amidst the rifles’ rapid rattles; no guilt or sympathy that halts their movements.</p><p>Neither does fear plague the brave, heartless soldiers - not even when the soldiers are held at gunpoint or witness an explosive being thrown their way. Epsilons like E-18/8 protected those who were ahead of them in the hierarchy, and were willing to kill, murder; sacrifice their bodies without a second thought.</p><p>When A-18/13 was almost stabbed from the back, for example, E-18/8 had fired a shot straight to the culprit’s head that instantaneously killed him without batting even so much as an eyelash. </p><p>Her victim's blood spills in the distance. A bright splash of scarlet, like carmine roses growing on a decrepit wasteland. He falls lifeless to the ground. </p><p>She doesn’t recoil in the slightest: her eyes are as lifeless as the cadaver’s.</p><p><em> For the greater good of the State, </em> they cantillate in their heads. An anthem for doomed youths who are slotted into an inescapable social destiny. </p><p>A-18/13 notices the sniper hiding in the comforting darkness of a bell tower from the corner of his eye, and makes a mental note to thank the stranger as she begins walking towards their base camp for their lunch break. They stand six feet apart, glassy-eyed amidst desultory conversations.</p><p>He approaches her slowly when their eyes meet. There’s an uncomfortable feeling stirring in his gut - <em> have we met before? </em> But he’s quick to quash it, as if stepping on a bothersome insect. “Thank you for earlier,” he says.</p><p>“Not at all. It is my duty, sir,” she responds tonelessly, before taking a seat opposite A-18/13 and B-13/8. They sip coffee and eat ration bars in a wordless, somewhat peaceful quietude despite the chaos around them.</p><p>The coffee tastes like dirt, and the ration bar reminds them of cardboard. </p><p>They eat anyway, without complaint. </p><p>Incidentally, A-19/10/11 happens to overhear their interactions. He turns around to face them. “Cadets like her deserve no thanks when they are simply doing their jobs,” he sneers. It's doltish, he thinks, to thank someone for something they're ordered to do.</p><p>E-18/8 makes no protests or objections despite the condescension in his statement. In a world without trivialities like memories or identities or emotions, the hierarchy’s austerity elicits no complaints.</p><p>Suddenly, a bell goes off. Duty calls. It signals the end of their lunch break, and they're quick to finish the last of their measly meals before standing once more for battle.</p><p>E-18/8 slings her rifles and prepares to leave. Her back reminds A-18/13 of the tall, white columns of an estate that occasionally appeared in his dreams.</p><p>A ponderous lump begins to form in his throat, but before he can ponder further the bell chimes again. Around him, soldiers recite the dreadful axiom once more.  </p><p>War wages on. The Flame Alchemist rises, and the sigil on his leathery glove begins to glow a lethal claret.  </p><p>A snap. Bodies burnt beyond recognition. Another snap. Curses and vows of vengeance eventually subsiding to muted prayers. </p><p>It’s a mortifying sight to take in: the entire place reeks more of death than sand. </p><p>The desert wind carries the howls of pain, the screams for mercy and the broken pleas for salvation from a god who doesn’t seem to hear the dying voices of its people. <em> Please, stop - what did we ever do wrong? Don’t take my lover’s life, take mine instead -  </em></p><p>
  <em> (I pray that you’ll always be that way… May you shine like fire before men; kindness and mercy your strongest traits.  And most of all, I pray that our love for each other will always -)   </em>
</p><p>A-18/13 simply regards all of this with a vacant, uncaring look. He’s quick to snap once more, incinerating mortals into ash - <em> from dust we were made, and back to that we shall return </em>- as if they were but matchsticks waiting to be lit up. </p><p>Unfettered by scruples, carefully curated gardens and entire landscapes are eventually swallowed by a lake of fire and brimstone. Roses are set on fire, and there’s a pistol party going on somewhere behind him. </p><p>A cacophony of bullets, a symphony of death.  </p><p>
  <em> (Be thou for the people. You’re… you’re the most honorable of all my apprentices, and you deserve to have it. If you just ask my daughter, tell her you’ll use it for the right reasons… she will give you the key to the secrets of flame alchemy.)  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (Can I… can I trust you with my back, Roy? You’re a good man, and I’d like to put my faith in that dream of yours.) </em>
</p><p>His expression remains unfazed. </p><p>~x~</p><p> </p><p><em> Amelos potamos, </em>despite its promises of creating the perfect soldiers, did not grant its victims immunity from physical sensations. </p><p>Pain. It's a complex feeling <em>(feelings? god forbid something like that exists!) </em>- equal parts physical and mental. It's as much biological as it is psychological. </p><p>E-18/8 bites her lips to stop herself from screaming in <em> pain </em>when the explosion burns her instead of A-18/13. Jumping in front of him to protect his body was an intuitive reaction, one that doesn't even require any contemplation. </p><p>
  <em> (I would do anything to protect you, Riza. Even if that means sacrificing myself.) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (As would I, Roy. A life without you is not one worth living.)    </em>
</p><p>Surely, it must have been the call of duty that compelled her to act that way. The words of A-19/10/11 echo in her mind, and she decides that she doesn’t deserve any thanks or show of concern for merely complying with orders. She’s prepared to walk - no, <em> crawl </em> - back to the weather-beaten tent despite the agony that sears through her, but - </p><p>-- for the first time since the war, the Flame Alchemist’s expression cracks ever so slightly. </p><p>He crosses the distance between them in two long strides and ushers her towards the tent, allowing her to lean on him for support. E-18/8 staggers from the pain, but holds in her scream nonetheless. A subtle hint of worry starts to sneak into his frown. </p><p>A-18/13 pushes aside the flap and quickly shuts it for privacy, before setting her down slowly on the bedrolls and deftly removing what was left of her uniform jacket and undershirt so that he could tend to her wounds. </p><p>The lacerations that she’s sustained look awful. It’s the worst on her shoulders, angry blisters mottling her smooth skin. His eyes move lower down her back - the injuries there don’t look as bad, and for the most part the ink there remains. </p><p>The scene feels strangely familiar, like he’s done this before. </p><p>He pours out the antiseptic and dabs gently at the gaping wounds. She winces, but before she can yelp she contains it with another hard bite down her lips. </p><p>“Sorry,” he murmurs. </p><p>E-18/8 thinks it’s strange. There’s nothing to apologise for. In the first place, it’s an oddity why someone higher in the hierarchy like him is even helping her dress her wounds. But she supposed it made sense - she couldn’t reach those wounds herself, after all, and it was best to repair his subordinates quickly so that she could resume her duties as his human shield. </p><p>“Not at all, sir,” she manages to exhale through the pain. Bandages are rolled around the injured area on her shoulders fastidiously. He moves on to the wounds on her back. </p><p>It is only then that he takes a closer examination at the tattoo, and to his surprise he realises it’s an alchemical array - an array that’s strikingly similar to the one on his gloves. </p><p>The epiphany hits him then, like a blaring truck. It bears an uncanny resemblance to the back of the nameless, faceless girl that appears in his dream. </p><p>He wonders why he dreams of someone he supposedly doesn’t know. </p><p>“Sir?” she asks, snapping him out of his reverie. His mending has come to a pause. E-18/8 wishes he would hurry up so that they could return to their duties. The perfect soldiers, after all, wasted no time on silly musings or dilly-dallyings. </p><p>“Ah, sorry,” he apologises again. A frown makes its presence known on her ashen countenance, but she swallows the pain as the dry air kisses her blisters along with the - dare she say, <em> irritation?  </em></p><p>“We should hurry up,” she whispers softly through gritted teeth, masking her - <em>well,</em> she didn’t know if it was irritation causing her teeth to grind against each other. </p><p>“Right,” he replies. He makes quick work of patching up the last of her wounds, before continuing to trace the tattoo in a dazed trance. There’s a tender sort of carefulness to his movements as he caresses the planes of her back. It elicits a shudder from the blonde, and she pins the blame on the desert wind that blows in fiercely through the little gaps pockmarking the flimsy tent. </p><p>His fingers continue their methodical dance down the grooves of her spine. E-18/8 shudders again, but the winds have stopped. </p><p>The Flame Alchemist gently thumbs the words that lay below the intricate array. Poems alluding to love and apology and light; frivolities that are unequivocally frowned upon by the State. </p><p>
  <em> (Through fire, we gain knowledge and truth - the same way fire brings clarity to sand in the form of glass.)  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (Well, that’s very... poetic, Roy.)  </em>
</p><p>Further down, there’s an inscription that stands out in a gentle blue cursive - like the waters of an ocean, or a clear, azure sky he doesn’t quite remember seeing since time immemorial. The only images they saw in the desert were rivers of blood that drowned land and sky in crimson, the colour of the sigil on his glove and the words above. </p><p>This particular inscription, though, is different. Aside from the disparity in colour, it speaks not of holy flames or physics or thermodynamics. Instead, it’s a letter, seemingly addressed to <em> someone </em>. It’s intriguing and frightening all the same, because it whispers taboos and a dangerous secret that he can’t quite wrap his finger around.</p><p>Nevertheless, he runs a finger across the alphabets spelling out a… a name. </p><p>A name.</p><p>His face pales, like the posthumous whiteness of marble - <em> does this blaspheme against the State? </em>- but ignoring the warning bells his fingers continue their descent. </p><p>It’s not just a name, but two. Two names, framing an inscription of identity. Emotion. Memory.</p><p>
  <em> My dear Riza, dearest Riza Hawkeye, </em>
</p><p><em> You will always be your own person,<br/>
</em> <em> And I will always love you for that. </em></p><p><em> Lest we forget,<br/>
</em> <em> Roy Mustang </em></p><p>“Ri...za,” he calls apprehensively. The foreign taste lingering on his tongue makes him feel like he’d just eaten the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge.  “Riza,” he tries again, “Hawkeye.”</p><p>“Who is that, sir?”</p><p>
  <em> Riza Hawkeye.  </em>
</p><p>The image of a young girl in a sundress flashes before him. His mind reels like a film-roll as memories flash past, sepia tones of nostalgia colouring them. It’s vague, but he’s starting to see the barely discernible outlines of a girl who looks like a younger version of the injured sniper before him. </p><p>The nameless, faceless girl that haunted him in his dreams… </p><p>
  <em> Was it - was it her? </em>
</p><p>“It’s… I think it’s you,” he says.</p><p>“That’s impossible, sir. I go by E-18/8,” she answers, but there’s a nervousness that creeps around her placid tone as she remembers the occasional dreamful slumber. </p><p>The picture of a younger her with a nameless, faceless raven-haired man, summertime and sunlight kissing their skin as they sat together on the front porch, feet dangling and fingers intertwining. The dream would always end, without fail, whenever he began to whisper their names to the wind. </p><p>But once, just once… she’d seen him mouth a “ri” before the dream came to an abrupt end. </p><p>“No, I’m pretty sure it’s you,” he says, with more urgency to his voice this time. A desperate plea for them to <em> remember, remember - lest we forget - </em>“There’s another name here - Roy Mustang. Does that sound familiar to you?” </p><p>
  <em> (... Hello, Mister Mustang.)  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (Please don’t call me that, Riza. Just call me Roy - I won’t bite, I promise.)  </em>
</p><p>“... Vaguely, sir.” </p><p>
  <em> (Alright… sir.)  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (That’s even worse! I’m not some… some old-fashioned lord. I just want to be your friend -)  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (... Friend?)  </em>
</p><p>As if possessed by some kind of uncontrollable automatism, they begin to cry. A teardrop falls on an open wound on the small of her back, and she jerks upright. </p><p>“Sorry,” comes his third apology. </p><p>Acting purely on instinct now, he wraps his arms loosely around her from behind, trying to navigate through the storm brewing in his mind. He finally has a taste of the embrace he’s subconsciously been yearning for. It’s bittersweet and agonising all at once. Desire burns, and he finds himself longing for more.  </p><p>She makes no move to escape his hold. Instead, she rests her palms on his scorched skin, feeling the calluses with a rough, padded thumb. It’s warm underneath her. He lives up to his moniker, she thinks, as heat begins to surge through her body. </p><p>
  <em> Hug me till you drug me, honey; kiss me till I’m in a coma…  </em>
</p><p>An almost carnal desire spills from his heart, running to his lips. He presses his lips on the back of her neck to soothe it. She shudders again, and this time she knows - it’s not because of the wind, but <em> him.  </em></p><p>“What… what were we, Riza? What are we now?” </p><p>“I don’t know, Roy,” she cries out softly, as she turns to return his gesture of affection. </p><p>For the briefest of moments, their lips meet. Flames unfurl beneath them, and suddenly the only war, the only tussle is not the one awaiting them outside, but within them - their souls and memories desperately trying to reconnect with their bodies - </p><p>
  <em> (I pray that our love for each other will always remain. I pray, Father, that you forgive us for our sins, past and future, and that the scarlet thread that runs between us will be one of love, not murder -)  </em>
</p><p>The bell rings, again. Any memories that they might have recollected of each other immediately recede like a spectre. </p><p><em> For the greater good of the State </em>. </p><p>They break apart from each other in stunned silence. E-18/8 is the first to stand, thanking him for tending to her wounds. “I am alright now, sir. We should get going.”</p><p>
  <em> (Isn’t it interesting, Riza? Fire on sand brings glass. Here, let me show you - ) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (Yes, Roy. I’m well aware. You’ve made that clear with your incessant rambling.) </em>
</p><p>Their consciences remain unclear as they step back out into the arid, sandy wasteland.</p>
  </div></div>
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